Romano is a Failure of a Host
by Grace Raven
Summary: "'I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, two o'clock sharp.'" "'Don't count on me opening this door, bastard'" "America laughed again." America/Romano. Oneshot. T for language.


DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia: World Series.

**Romano is a Failure of a Host**

At most times of the day, Romano had one thought that paraded throughout his mind. And that thought was this:

**What **the _fuck_.

This was especially true when around Spain and his two best friends. Or when around Veneziano. Or when around just about anybody who was so unnaturally happy and oblivious that Romano found it hard to believe they were actually _real_. Not that he hadn't tried to prove they weren't solid, human-like personifications of countries. He could clearly remember pinching Veneziano one cool, Mediterranean day until the half-nation was wailing to every person within a five-mile radius to protect him.

Today, however, this constant thought had morphed into something entirely different and persisted on making itself known every ten seconds. Quite simply, it was:

_Why _the hell was America here and **what **the fuck was with him and his insistence on eating _Romano_'s cooking?

Romano mumbled this notion—in Italian, of course—under his breath and was surprised to receive a curious stare from his uninvited guest.

"I'm here because I wanted to be here and I want to eat your cooking 'cause Italian food is a lot better when not pre-cooked," America answered before slurping up more of the pasta Romano had reluctantly made. The younger nation had splatters of pasta sauce—Alfredo of course, because this guy was apparently _that_ self-centered—on his face, but didn't seemed to notice. If Romano gave two shits and a pony about the blonde country, he would've wiped the sauce off his face, but Romano didn't and so he left the idiot to look like a fool.

He did, however, clean off the drops of sauce from America's glasses. Dumbass didn't need to go around blind.

"How the fuck do you even _know_ Italian?" Romano inquired as he cleaned the lenses with his red and green apron. Spain had declared it looked like a tomato.

America blinked blindly. "From Austria, duh."

Romano didn't even _want _to know how America had learned Italian from Austria.

"Whatever," the half-nation muttered, chucking the glasses back to their owner. America, luckily, caught them, but it was hard to miss the angry glare sent Romano's way.

"Thanks," the younger personification grumbled, sliding the glasses over his blue eyes. He blinked rapidly, allowing his eyes to readjust, before his always idiotic smile grew upon his face. "Oh, and thanks for cleaning them, too. They didn't need it, but it was a nice gesture. Never thought you had in ya, Romano!"

What the—? How the hell did he go from mad to happy in only a fucking millisecond? What the fuck?

Oh shit. What if he was another _Spain_? Not the regular Spain, but the creepy as hell Spain with the fucking halberd and fucking long hair and—

"Yo, Romano, you okay? You're hyperventalatin'," America worriedly inquired, placing a hand on the Italian's back. Romano snapped out of his frightened state, roughly pushing the taller nation away.

"Get the fuck away from me, hamburger bastard!"

America fell to the floor, his head hitting the tile with a painful '_thump_' and his glasses once again leaving his face. Romano inhaled sharply, stumbling back against the wall. He panted, watching with fear as the fallen nation lay still on the floor. He knew immediately that the young country was not, in fact, _dead_; nations did not die so easily, but it was frighteningly effortless to send them into a short-lived coma or bodily harm them. They were more like a simple human than an immortal being in that sense.

America was still not moving. The older nation was tempted to poke him with a fork until he finally showed signs of life, but he very well knew that this would result in the loss of a fairly good fork in exchange for a useless spork. Damn, it was sometimes frightening how strong the younger nation was.

Fuck, he really was another Spain, wasn't he?

Well, they _did _have the same glasses*.

…Maybe he should check if those glasses were possessed before returning them to their current owner.

Or splash them with holy water. One or both.

Romano squatted down in front of the motionless body, pinching the blond's cheeks as a way of awakening him, but to no avail. He played with the flabby skin, wondering if it was baby fat or just fat on America's cheeks. Quickly growing bored, he sat back on his ankles, trying to balance himself as he looked down at the passed out nation.

"Damn hamburger bastard. Have to choose _my_ house to go unconscious in. Fucking dumbass," Romano insulted, his hand sliding under America's jaw to find his pulse, checking to make sure his pulse wasn't too fast or too slow for his own good. He knew he was possibly overreacting, but this was a _world power _on his floor and even Romano had survival instincts.

"Once you wake up, I'm kicking you out of my house and never letting you back in, jackass."

Romano stood up then bent down, slipping his hands under America's armpits and trying to drag the tall nation to the guest room.

Only to fall on his butt.

Fuck. He was going to have to call the potato bastard for this one, wasn't he?

* * *

America was a fairly random country, usually deciding upon things on a whim. That much he could admit to himself. His current visit to South Italy was the most recent example of this. He had been returning from a quick meeting with Germany (made only to try and strengthen political ties, according to his boss) when he decided to go on a short vacation in Italy. He had easily passed Switzerland, who had threatened him with a gun but had backed off the minute he saw America's two guns, both of which were deadlier than the relic he was holding.

Of course, the first Italy he came across was the Northern half, Veneziano, though the Italian had insisted on being called Feliciano. While America found the guy to be fun company, his patience had quickly worn thin when it became near impossible to open his mouth without pasta being shoved in it. And when the facepalms became one too many, America had bid Veneziano a quick farewell and had started to go down to the south.

He had figured he could deal with Romano from his past experiences with England.

He was proven wrong.

Romano had slammed the door in America's face just as quickly as he had opened it. America—not easily deterred—had managed to climb through the open window (he immediately felt the need to educate Romano on the hazard of keeping his window open), only to have him come face to face with a knife. After multiple tries, America had successfully entered Romano's home, but was yelled at repeatedly as Romano made him pasta ("I'm only doing it to be a good host, bastard! And what the fuck is with your inability to not notice when someone doesn't want you in their fucking house?").

The final straw had been when his precious glasses were taken then chucked back at him without a care in world.

All was forgiven, however, when he had noticed that Romano had cleaned the lenses for him.

But he wasn't sure how easy it would be to forgive Romano for knocking him unconscious.

America woke to distant shouting. He could feel a mattress under his body and an ice pack against the bump that was invariably on his head. His bomber jacket was removed and hanging on the door handle and his socks were tucked inside his shoes, the latter of which were laying next to the bed.

He groaned, sitting up and swinging his legs over the bed so that his feet touched the floor. He scratched his head groggily, careful not to touch the bump. He blindly searched for his glasses on the night stand, slid them over his eyes, and stood up to slip on his socks and shoes.

The shouting voice was obviously Romano. Opening the door, America could clearly see that Romano was shouting at Germany, who simply looked confused and growingly impatient.

"Hey, no fighting the presence of a hero!" America interrupted, literally jumping between the two. He nodded at Germany in greeting before slinging an arm around Romano's shoulders, the latter mumbling a death threat to both Germany and America.

"I see you are better, _Amerika_. Please keep ice on that wound until your head stops hurting (and I know it still is) and try not to fall again." Germany sent a look at Romano. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to return home before _Preu__ßen_manages to do anything potentially hazardous," Germany said quickly, allowing no interruption. He took a small glance between the other two nations before adding: "Have a good evening." He headed towards the door, only able to place his hand on the knob before Romano said his goodbye of sorts.

"Stay the fuck away from _mio fratello_, potato bastard."

America could see Germany shaking, clearly contemplating whether to just leave or give Romano a piece of his mind. He chose the former.

"Che, glad that bastard is gone."

America surreptitiously rolled his eyes, moving away from his surly host and grabbing his bomber jacket. When he returned, he was met with the sight of Romano—now staring at him with scary intent—holding a broom. Before he could ask why Romano was holding it, the shorter nation was poking him in the back with the handle of the broom.

"Now it's your turn to leave, hamburger bastard. And don't be expecting another free visit!" Romano exclaimed, poking at America's back until he was forced out of the front door. Romano allowed America a nice view of his middle finger before closing the door shut, the sound of furniture being pushed up against the closed door following soon after. There was also the sound of one or two guns being cocked.

America laughed loudly, gaining himself a few more stares from the people passing by.

"I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, two o'clock sharp!" America exclaimed, sticking his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket.

"Don't count on me opening this door, bastard!"

America laughed again.

True to his word, America appeared at Romano's doorway at two o'clock, on the dot, and was pleasantly surprised to find the door wide open.

_Fin._

**Grace Raven: **America/Romano/America—a pairing that deserves more love. And yes, I'm, quite obviously, a supporter. Even if I'm a horrible oneshot writer.

*America's glasses are Texas. Texas belonged to Mexico, who belonged to Spain, so my head canon is that America's glasses originally belonged to Spain then were stolen by Mexico when he/she declared independence. Then there were thirteen years when the country of Texas existed and he/she wore the glasses, then Texas was annexed to the Union and the glasses were given to America.


End file.
